How to Say Goodbye
by fleetingfantasy
Summary: In which Fuji disappears without a word, and nothing in ever resolved. TezuFuji.


**Title:** how to say goodbye  
><strong>CharactersPairings:** TezuFuji. Somewhat.  
><strong>Rating:<strong> K.  
><strong>Warnings:<strong>angst for apparently no reason.  
><strong>Length:<strong> ~1,200  
><strong>Summary:<strong> In which Fuji disappears without a word and nothing is ever resolved.

**Notes: **It's actually an attempt at a character piece for Fuji, but it's more actually a desperate battle to get out of writer's block.

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><p><strong>how to say goodbye.<strong>

_When one day his father receives a job offer in the United Kingdom, printed in silken-smooth white paper exactly business-sized, Fuji packed up and willed himself to disappear without a word. It would be simple, he reckons, because the ties between persons are as fragile as paper ribbons, and he's learnt by Yumiko's brief excursion with decorative gift-wrapping that it's easier to achieve a clean, straight cut like a blade. _

_The actual proceedings were less smooth that what he'd imagined, because there is an English-Japanese dictionary in his schoolbag that, according to the neat label on the top right-hand corner of the cover, belongs to Tezuka._

_No matter, because as far as objects go they remain motionless lifeless beings, and the only sentiment they carry is those you choose to adhere to._

_So when he arrives in their new home, one that smells lightly of paint thinner and the neighbour's apple pie, the one he almost trips when entering due to the lack of a step in the doorway, he shoves the dictionary into the very back of the wooden drawer on his shelf. It lays there, and he likes to think it's forgotten._

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><p>Maybe half a decade later an invitation to a dinner party arrives in the mail on a sizzling summer's day; the heat of the metal mailbox traces a blunt memory on his fingertips, even five or ten minutes later when he's on his couch drinking iced coffee.<p>

Fuji discards the embossed envelope lightly into the wastebasket. The coffee in his hand tastes like ash, and he reminds himself to check the expiry date on the canister.

The air conditioner in his apartment is desperately hanging on to life, and despite its heroic efforts it's not powerful enough to rid the small one-bedroom of the settling weight of summer. Looking at his wristwatch he sees ten-thirty. Fuji tilts his head, considers. Decides to make his way to the closest grocery store for free cooling.

It's very everyday.

Near the fruit aisle, where the chill is most concentrated and most heavenly – especially compared to the seafood aisle, he meets the one person he never thinks he'll meet.

"Fuji," Tezuka is standing before him, eyes a millimetre wider than normal.

Fuji catches himself just in time before remembrance, halts that sharp exhale and curbs in before it leaves his lungs. He does the only thing he can think of. "I'm sorry," he pastes on a smile, "You must have caught the wrong person."

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><p>It turns out that Fuji never turns himself away fast enough. Tezuka's fingers are a vice-like grip around his elbow, but it's what he says next that forms the shackle. "I know it's you, Fuji," he says, and his tone is that slight amount of wonder and exasperation and annoyance and Fuji sees as clear as day the bubbling question underneath. "It's only been five years."<p>

So Fuji looks back and waits two measures before the memory is supposed to resurface in his mind, bobbing like a fish lure. Just as well, because he could use a couple of minutes the rearrange the influx of memories in his mind to something resembling order. "Tezuka," Fuji manages. "How have you been?"

"The fruit aisle in the supermarket is hardly a place to catch up," he lets his elbow free, "Let's go to a cafe."

Just like that, Tezuka leaves him with no choice.

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><p><em>Provedore<em> on the third corner of the main street is a quaint little place, waitresses in elegant aprons carrying steaming mugs of cinnamon-scented chocolate or neat triangles of pastry, never once dropping to the polished marble floor a crumb. It's where Fuji takes his women, because the jazz is enjoyable and, if he angles his ears the right way, loud enough to drown out the tittering voices that emanate from glossy painted lips that always seem deceptively small.

In fact, Fuji only ever takes women to _Provedore_, so perhaps it's not such a peculiar thing that the server's eyes bulge as he opens the door with Tezuka in tow, claiming a two-seater in the quietest corner of the shop.

"I highly recommend the cappuccino here," Fuji begins as they peruse the two-toned menu, "Ask for a dollop of Tabasco."

Tezuka is silent for a while, before folding the menu and setting it down on the glass table. There is contentment across his face somewhere among the swirl of curiosity, and it augments in clarity when he speaks, "It appears some things don't change."

Fuji is rescued from replying when a waitress arrives with a cream-colored notepad. "The usual, Shuusuke?" and from the corner of his eyes Fuji sees Tezuka quirk his eyebrow at the use of his first name. Fuji nods, and the waitress turns to Tezuka, "And for the date?"

The whiteboard excuse for an expression speaks millions. Fuji tries to pretend to stifle a laugh but the attempt feels like needles dragged across his throat. "Cappuccino," Tezuka finally answers, "With a dollop of Tabasco," and the waitress winks as she walks away.

"She's somewhat of a close acquaintance," Fuji murmurs by way of explanation, when their drinks are on the table, "Likes to assume things, but," he tilts his head, "You didn't correct her." He has the slight inkling at the back of his mind that he's digging a hole deeper.

"It wasn't technically a mistake," Tezuka takes a sip of his coffee, and judging from his expression Fuji knows it's horrible. "We didn't have an official breakup, after all."

Fuji catches his breath, again. "I'd have thought that me disappearing without a word for half a decade is official plenty."

Another sip. "Perhaps."

Silence settles, and Fuji still remembers a time when this kind of quiet is warm; there was a time – written in colour at the back of his mind, edges wispy and frayed like a tribute to clouds – there was once a part of his life when silence didn't feel like winter seeping into his ribcage. What a funny thing.

He thinks he should have some mercy – on Tezuka or himself he doesn't know – so he says as Tezuka sips again his coffee and tries to suppress a wince, "Would you like to switch, _buchou?_" The honorific tumbles from his lips without thought, and this time Fuji can't suppress a sharp exhale. "Mine's just apple tea."

If Tezuka realizes, he doesn't say a word. "That would be nice."

There are a million questions running in his head, and it's too much for him to be able to pick and chose the safest ones, because one question has a thread connected to a million others. So Fuji figures, what the hell, and releases the hold on his tongue.

"Aren't you going to ask why I left?" Fuji asks, and there's genuine bewilderment and fear in there somewhere, behind a shield of smiles. Tezuka seems taken aback. It's a wonderful thing, to know that someone's just as confused as you are. Fuji saves Tezuka the awkward moment. "I quit playing, you know," he says in a tone of wonder, "I was wondering how you felt about that."

"Fuji –"

Fuji raises a hand. "That's that, Tezuka," and he takes out a stack of bills and lays them on the table. As he walks out (maybe puts the past behind), the waitress coos behind him, _Leaving already, Shuusuke?_

**end.**

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><p>Someday I'll probably make a continuation of this, because I want a happy ending. But for now writer's block takes over and I seriously need help to get over it ;_; Help, anyone, help, I could use anything because this block is driving me crazy.<p> 


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